


A Mighty Misery

by Lindenharp



Series: On the Wings of the Dawn [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Sick Character, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: Feather mites! James has never suffered from parasites before. He's not sure which is worse: the physical discomfort or the embarrassment.This is a sequel toBirds of a Feather. You don'thaveto read it first, but you may appreciate this story more if you do. (It's only 100 words. Go ahead: read it!)
Relationships: James Hathaway & Robert Lewis
Series: On the Wings of the Dawn [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/62827
Comments: 3
Kudos: 63





	A Mighty Misery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MorganRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganRose/gifts).



> This story came as a surprise to me. It is a sequel to _Birds of a Feather_ , a drabble in the DVD extras series, and is dedicated to MorganRose, who provided inspiration by asking an interesting question: "How does one treat a winged person for feather mites?" How, indeed? My Muse was intrigued, and this is the result.
> 
> Thanks are due to Sasha1600: beta, gadfly, and cheerleader, and to Small_Hobbit for Brit-picking.

Feather mites! James has never suffered from parasites before. He's not sure which is worse: the physical discomfort or the embarrassment. Robbie is kind, and only teases James briefly before asking how he can help.

James would _like_ to say that he can manage just fine on his own, thank you very much. If only that were true! A few phone calls to local pet shops reveal that the spray he needs (toxic to mites, but safe for humans) is only carried by one shop in the area: Bert's World of Birds. He can't go in person for fear of infesting Bert's birds, and he won't wait for a mail-order delivery. After phoning to make sure that Bert has a jug of spray concentrate in stock, he presents Robbie with several banknotes, detailed instructions and a plea to hurry.

Robbie's prompt return brings relief—and a new humiliation. Within half an hour, he finds himself in a windowless storage room that Robbie has borrowed from someone who owes him a favour. He's wearing only an old pair of training shorts and flip-flops. His wings, fully extended, nearly touch the concrete walls on either side.

There's something about this space that makes him uneasy, as if it's bringing back a memory that hovers in the shadows, just out of reach. He's not claustrophobic. He's been in many rooms like this one before, searching for evidence or a fugitive or a missing person, and never had a traumatic experience in one, except the time a drunken suspect puked all over his shoes.

Then Robbie comes into view, carrying a large spray bottle. Fully dressed, including his coat, and wearing a pair of protective goggles, he resembles an accountant turned exterminator or a genial mad scientist. _Mad scientist!_ The memory returns, as sharp and clear as if someone flicked on a light switch.

> _It's his second year at university. Past midnight, and he's wrestling with an essay on Tertullian's condemnation of theatre and public spectacles. Feeling suddenly sick of his residence hall, he walks through the rainy darkness, and takes refuge in Sultan Kebab House. The takeaway boasts four wobbly lino-topped tables, a pervasive odour of grease and onions, a telly perpetually tuned to Indian cricket matches, and the best Turkish-style coffee in Cambridgeshire._
> 
> _He makes some progress on the outline and thesis statement, and rewards himself with a cigarette break, followed by a large chips and cheese. Even when he's not flying regularly, his metabolism is always demanding fuel._
> 
> _"'Scuse me, mate!"_
> 
> _James looks up to see another student speaking to the counter assistant. "Would you mind switching the telly over to BBC Two? There's a programme that my film studies lecturer said I ought to watch, and I missed the showing last week."_
> 
> _The assistant shrugs. "Just don't tell the boss." He presses a button on the remote, then returns to reading his maths textbook._
> 
> _The programme is a documentary on the career of film director Raymond Tattersall. It isn't quite as easy to ignore as cricket commentary, but within a few minutes, it blends into the sizzle of the fryer, the whir of the ventilator, and the steady patter of rain on the pavement outside._
> 
> _James is absorbed in explaining the connection between the theatre and pagan rites when his concentration is broken by the sound of explosions. Stock footage of the Blitz flickers across the screen, followed by the wail of an all-clear siren._
> 
> _"After the War, Tattersall hoped to return to the art films that he considered his true metier," the presenter intones. "He discovered that funding was difficult to come by. The common wisdom said that the Great British Public wanted 'Romance, adventure, and a bit of a laugh.'"_
> 
> _Tertullian would certainly not have approved, James thinks wryly. In the ancient writer's opinion, Christians should avoid viewing depictions of anything that would be wrong for them to do, lest they be tempted to sin._
> 
> _"Then came Tattersall’s 1947 venture with Hammer Films—not yet reborn as Hammer Horror. His detractors condemned it as a purely mercenary choice. Money was undoubtedly a motive, but not the only one.”_
> 
> _The scene shifts to a 1971 interview with an elderly Tattersall. “There were other projects I could have taken on, at home and in the States. Ealing and MGM had made overtures.The reason I agreed to put my name on a melodrama with a third-rate script was a chance to direct a unique performer. And the Kestrel really stood out, even amongst others of his kind.”_
> 
> _James drops his biro, and all thoughts of early Christian Rome vanish. Derek Stanton, AKA the Kensington Kestrel, was one of the so-called 'Celluloid Angels'—winged actors who were the darlings of the film industry from the early days until the 1960s. James has seen clips of the Kestrel in flight performing fantastic acrobatic dives and rolls, but has never watched any of his films._
> 
> _The premise of 'The Kestrel in the Jungle of Death' is as simple as it is ludicrous. Nazi scientist Dr Siegfried Falke escapes to South America, where he plots to bring about the Fourth Reich by creating an army of unstoppable soldiers. Through a series of absurd coincidences, the Kestrel arrives in the jungle village where Falke has his secret laboratory, and is promptly kidnapped._
> 
> _The camera fades in from black to reveal the Kestrel in a small cell. He's stripped to the waist, wings half-unfurled. His wrists are shackled above his head, attached to a thick chain that hangs from the ceiling. Dr Falke swaggers up to the bars of the cell, and delivers the standard villain speech. The Kestrel is heroically defiant. Both actors do a decent job with the banal lines._
> 
> _The cinematography is amazing, especially considering the technical limitations of the era. Tattersall makes the most of body language and unexpected angles. When Falke speaks, the shot is filmed from behind the Kestrel. The hero's growing anger and fear are shown in tightened shoulders and bristling wings._
> 
> _Falke explains how he creates his unstoppable warriors. Inside every human being is an animalistic brute force, capable of incredible feats of endurance and strength. "The small woman who lifts a fallen tree off her husband; the bearer of an urgent message who keeps running long after he should have collapsed—we have all heard these stories, yes? They happen only in extraordinary circumstances. But what if one could force the inner beast to emerge on command?" He boasts of his cleverness in adapting a drug known only to the shamans of an Amazon jungle tribe. Using modern scientific techniques, he has purified the drug, and concentrated its effects. "With this elixir, the inner beast can be called forth, and made to obey, without question or hesitation. Imagine it—an army of soldiers who will never halt, never surrender. Once given the order, they will continue until they achieve victory or die in the attempt!"_
> 
> _The Villain and the Hero exchange the expected banter: point and counterpoint._
> 
> _"What am I doing here?" the Kestrel demands._
> 
> _"You? You are a gift from Destiny. I have been building an army to conquer the land for the glorious new Reich, but now I perceive that there must be warriors in the skies, as well."_
> 
> _The Kestrel protests. He will never submit, never serve the forces of evil._
> 
> _Falke is amused by his defiance. "The drug will rouse the beast, and command it. This is how it works on all men. It will certainly work on one such as you. The brute nature must be very close to the surface when the body is already half-animal."_
> 
> _Stirring music swells as the Kestrel proclaims that no witch doctor's foul brew will overcome his devotion to God, King, and Country._

"James? You all right there?" Robbie pushes the safety goggles up onto his forehead to peer at James's face.

His reply is automatic. "I'm fine."

Robbie continues to study him, unconvinced.

"An old memory. Nothing important." He considers adding 'just a touch of existential flu', but that didn't go over well the last time he used it. "Look, can we get on with this? Because it's bloody cold down here, and I can promise you that I'll freeze to death long before the mites will."

Robbie nods and pushes the goggles back in place.

He's annoyed at himself for being so visibly distracted by a memory from fifteen years ago. It's not as though it was traumatic, even then. If he'd seen that rubbishy film when he was seven or eight, it might have given him a few nightmares about being kidnapped as a laboratory subject. Nineteen-year-old James had rolled his eyes, written another paragraph while finishing his chips, and then headed back to his rooms.

The process takes nearly an hour. It's not enough for Robbie to spray the entirety of James's considerable wingspan. He also has to check that the dead and dying mites fall off the feathers onto the plastic tarp spread over the floor. Midway through, he exits the room briefly so that James can give his wings a vigorous flap to dislodge any holdouts. Upon returning, he sprays another dose of the medication, careful to treat every feather, from the scapulars to the primaries. After it's had a minute to dry, he says, "Right. You go get dressed, and I'll clean up in here."

It's an order that James is glad to obey. The room isn't really freezing, but it is uncomfortably cool. His wings ache from the strain of holding them outstretched, and he would kill for a cig and a pint. He's lacing his trainers when Robbie emerges from the inner room carrying a large bin bag. "Let's go."

In the car, James forces himself to make casual conversation, hoping to avoid the 'how are you?' question. He doesn't want to lie to Robbie, but he is even more reluctant to confess what's on his mind. How can he explain that he's haunted by dialogue written by a studio hack for a cartoonish mad scientist? _"The brute nature must be very close to the surface when the body is already half-animal."_ James doesn't believe that. And yet, the words echo in his mind...

"—ever tell you?" Robbie asks.

James jerks upright, coming out of his thoughts like a man awakening from a doze. "Pardon?"

"Did I ever tell you about the time I had lice?" Robbie repeats. He launches into the tale. His son was 6 or 7, and got them from a schoolmate. "They were playing cops and robbers, or some such game, and they started wrestling, the way boys do. Then Mark decided he needed a hat to be a proper copper, and he borrowed mine. I was still in uniform then." He lets out a sound that is half chuckle, half sigh. "And didn't I have a surprise the next day."

James understands. This is Robbie's oblique way of sympathising: by sharing his own past embarrassment.

"Val met me at the door when I came home. The school had telephoned all the parents to warn them. She'd gone and bought the medicated shampoo, and made Mark wash his hair twice. So I said she'd done the right thing, and I hoped she'd got a large bottle of the stuff, 'cos I needed it, too."

_I'll bet she didn't have to go to a pet shop to buy medication for her son and her husband_ , James thinks sourly. _Brute nature... half-animal_. He forces himself to nod and smile. No reason why Robbie should suffer from his bad mood. The man has sacrificed most of his Sunday afternoon to help James with an unpleasant task, and he's done it with patience and good humour. James owes him a huge debt of gratitude, and a couple of pints—or perhaps a good dinner.

He makes the offer, but gets a head-shake and a rueful look. "Not today, thanks. Think I need an early night. Maybe tomorrow?"

And what can James do, other than nod and smile again, and wish Robbie a good night? "Tomorrow," he agrees.

* * *

'Tomorrow' has other plans. They catch a break with their current case. Wilverson confesses. That's good news, but there's a lot to do before they can hand the case over to CPS. It becomes clear that they won't be leaving the nick until late in the evening.

James drops a ham baguette and a packet of crisps on Lewis's desk. "Bon appetit, sir." He sits at his own desk and unwraps a tuna mayo sandwich.

Lewis sighs. "Not the dinner either of us was hoping for.".

" _Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit_ ," James says. He catches his governor's 'translation, please' frown, and adds, "It's Sod's Law in Latin, more or less."

Lewis mutters something that sounds like, "And what's the Latin for 'bloody Oxford'?"

The translation comes easily to James's mind, but he's not foolish enough to say it aloud.

Lewis gets up to visit the loo, and James turns his attention to his sandwich. He's about to take a bite when his mobile rings. It's from a number he doesn't recognise. "Hello?"

"Mr Philips?" 

There's a split second of confusion before James remembers the pseudonym he used to order the anti-mite spray. "Erm, yes?"

"This is Bert Crowder of Bert's World of Birds. I'm just phoning to ask how Jim is doing with the mites?"

James hadn't assigned a name to his imaginary pet parrot who needed the spray. Evidently, Robbie had decided to fill in the blank. "He's much better, thanks."

"Oh, good. Good. What sort of a parrot is he? Your mate didn't seem to know."

"Erm.. yeah. He's a good friend, but he doesn't know much about birds. Jim is an African Grey." 

"That explains it, then."

"Pardon?"

"Your friend was telling me that Jim is quite the talker. Knows a lot of big words, bits of poetry, and even some Latin and Greek. And I thought, he must be a Grey. Clever creatures... almost human, they are."

_Almost human... that's good old Jim._ James tamps down his anger. He can't blame Bert for believing the cover story he was given. And he can't blame Robbie for inserting a harmless, private joke into his description of Jim-the-parrot.

"I was wondering, do you clip his wings?"

"I did, for some years, but then a wise man persuaded me to reconsider. I try to strike a balance between his safety and his freedom," James says honestly.

"Oh, that's good. I know sometimes it's necessary, but for the most part, I can't see doing that. Birds are meant to fly. It's their nature, and they get such joy from it. I can see it, plain as day, when I watch them." A loud sigh follows this statement. "Sometimes I think I'd give all the remaining years of my life if I could fly, just for one hour. I think it'd be a fair trade."

James has no idea what to say. He's saved from having to respond to that extraordinary confession by the return of his governor. "I'm sorry, I really do have to go now, but thank you so much for calling."

Lewis raises an eyebrow.

"Bert, of Bert's Birds. He was calling to inquire about the health of my parrot... Jim."

Lewis smirks. "And how is Jim today?"

"Feeling much better, thanks." James hesitates. "I'm wondering, if you don't have any plans for this Saturday, the weather is supposed to be fine. I was thinking of some bird-watching," he says, using their code-phrase for flying.

"Saturday? I'm as free as a bird," Lewis jokes.

“I thought that was my line,” James retorts. A sudden, unexpected surge of pity wells up in him, but it’s directed at Bert, not Robbie. He knows without asking that Robbie would never give up one minute of his ordinary, earthbound life in exchange for a chance to fly. Robbie Lewis is content with who and what he is. He’s teaching James to do the same, and is remarkably patient with his sometimes slow, often headstrong student. “Sir?”

“Hmmm?”

“I just—“ He hesitates, feeling the weight of Lewis’s attention on him. _Not much of a talker, now, are you?_ He inhales deeply, as if preparing to leap into flight. “Just... thank you.” He adds silently, _Please, don't ask 'for what?'._

Lewis studies him for a long moment, then nods. “You’re welcome, Jim.”

\--- THE END ---

**Author's Note:**

> My original intent was for this sequel to be another DVD extra. By the time it was finished, I decided that it needed to be part of the main series, and had to decide where it fit into James's emotional journey. Placing it before _A Season of Sacrifice_ made the most sense to me.
> 
> Ursula K. Le Guin, talking about science fiction, inverted a line from a poem by Marianne Moore, and referred to "real gardens with imaginary toads in them". My apologies to Hammer FIlm Productions for placing an imaginary director (and an imaginary film) in their real cinematic garden.
> 
> Winged actor Derek Stanton was called the "Kensington Kestrel" because his hair and wings were light brown, like the bird, and he was (according to his official studio biography) born in the London borough of Kensington. Detractors claimed he was actually from a less elegant part of London, and called him the "Southwark Sparrow". 
> 
> _"Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit"_ translates as "Man proposes, but God disposes". It is from _The Imitation of Christ_ , a 15th-century spiritual guidebook by Thomas à Kempis.


End file.
